


Spines

by TheFalconWarrior



Series: Life is a Rollercoaster (A Big, Twisty One) [25]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Damian Wayne is a good Bro, Dick Grayson is a good bro, Gen, I love how the last one is the only one that comes up automatically., Tim Drake Has a Bad Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFalconWarrior/pseuds/TheFalconWarrior
Summary: Damian hates feeling inadequate.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: Life is a Rollercoaster (A Big, Twisty One) [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410376
Comments: 12
Kudos: 226





	Spines

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #25: Prickly
> 
> So! I've been writing things for this prompt for a year now. Maybe longer. I have all those things in a whole doc.  
> I decided I was gonna post happy stuff so I had a rather ridiculous story involving cacti planned and started.  
> But then last night I came back to THIS, which I drafted like a week ago, and finished it, and after a day of should-I-should-I-not-ing I decided to post it and move on.  
> So. Well.

The reason Damian misses the first warning sign is that they _all_ wake up late that morning. 

He wakes up to find his clock reads “12:00”, and he _knows_ he went to bed at 3 and it’s too bright to be midnight anyways, and okay maybe he isn’t quite all the way awake yet. 

He rolls out of bed anyways. A little investigation shows that the alarms on his clock and his phone have both been switched off.

 _Damnit, Pennyworth_. 

The aforementioned “all” refers to himself, Father, and Drake, who is currently between apartments. Again. 

Father is dressed for Wayne Enterprises work, and already holding a thermos of coffee when Damian enters the kitchen. 

“Morning, Damian.” 

“Sleep well, Master Damian?” Pennyworth asks, a gleam in his eye. 

Damian grunts and heaves himself onto a barstool. 

“Master Timothy is still asleep, I see?” Alfred notes. 

Bruce chuckles. “Nice to know he’s catching up on sleep.” 

Something in that sentence pokes at Damian’s brain, but he shoos it away. 

He has more important things to think of. 

Namely, getting a cup of coffee. With Pennyworth’s permission or without. 

An hour later, Damian’s brain is sufficiently caffeinated, Timothy has yet to make an appearance, and Damian is bored. 

It’s a Saturday. All his acquaintances are occupied, Richard is working, he’s already finished all his homework, and he doesn’t feel like drawing. So naturally, he goes to bother Drake, who is probably holed up in his room working on something-or-the-other. 

(He doesn’t put it together, at the moment, but it’s what had needled at his brain earlier. Damian, for some reason he can’t quite comprehend, is aware that Timothy, for another reason Damian can't quite comprehend, can't sleep past 9. At the latest. ) 

Which is why, when Damian throws open the door to find Timothy wrapped up in his blanket, he has no qualms in loudly announcing, “Isn’t it about time you got your sorry self out of this room, Drake?” 

And why, when he receives no answer, he follows up with, “I know you’re awake, Drake.” 

“Go away Damian.” 

But Damian is about to go mad with boredom. “What are you doing?” 

“Sleeping.” 

Damian snorts. “Of course you are.” 

Timothy rolls over to glare at him, and Damian realizes that unless Drake’s wearing his Red Robin gloves under the blanket the bed really is empty. 

Hm. “Why?” 

“Why _what_?” 

Damian rolls his eyes. “Why are you still in _bed_ ,” he says, enunciating slowly. 

“Because I am tired. Everyone's always on my back about not sleeping enough, so _I am sleeping_.” 

“Tt. There are precious few hours in the day to waste with closed eyes, Drake.” 

Drake sighs. Finally rolls around to peek at Damian. 

“Damian, I _really_ don’t want to do this right now.” 

Damian blinks. 

“Please?” 

Drake’s eyes are almost pleading, and Damian has never been in this situation before and realizes he doesn’t know what would happen if he pushed on in he and Timothy’s normal manner but he doesn’t know how else to react and _he is not responsible for this_. 

So with one last eyeroll, he spins on his heel and leaves, shutting the door behind him. 

He’s in the living room, sketching Alfred the Cat, when Pennyworth ascends the stairs up to the bedroom, tray in hand. 

Damian’s pencil stills on the paper. He listens to Pennyworth’s footsteps ascend, walk down the hall to Timothy’s room, pause, enter. 

Pennyworth stays with Drake for seven minutes and twenty three seconds before he leaves. Walks down the hall. Down the stairs. 

Damian pulls his knees in a little tighter, leans a little further back into his chair as Pennyworth comes into view through the archway that leads to the living room. 

The elder man seems not to have noticed the boy in the living room. Damian is absolutely certain of this, because that is the only explanation for the sorrowful, _tired_ look on the normally stoic man’s face. 

Alfred disappears into the kitchen, and Damian loosens his posture and flips to a new page. 

Damian is headed to his room for his pastels. 

Pennyworth, it seems, left Timothy’s door open. 

Damian looks forward to the day he is taller than Drake (Todd is taller than Grayson, and Father is quite tall, Damian is quite certain it will happen) but for now his small stature is useful in slipping through the crack without touching the door. 

There’s a tray on Tim’s bedside table. A sandwich on a plate, a bowl, a glass of iced tea and a cup. 

Further investigation reveals the sandwich is untouched, the mac & cheese in the bowl is missing only a bite, and the tea is cold. 

“ _Damian_ ,” Timothy growls, face buried in his pillow. 

“You’re not injured, are you?” Damian blurts out. It sounds...accusing. Oops. 

A pause. “What?” 

Well. “Are you hiding an injury? Because I _will_ tell Father--” 

“ _Jesus_ \--” Drake rolls over. Damian studies his face. He is not pale...although his skin is a little flushed. “I’m not injured, Damian, I’m not that stupid—believe me I got over that one a while back.” 

Damian nods, then glances at the tray. “Pennyworth will be displeased,” he notes, then flees. 

He leaves the door open a crack. 

Damian watches Pennyworth at the sink whilst he eats his own pasta. “Drake is not well.” 

Pennyworth pauses, then resumes soaping the plates. “I fear not, Master Damian.” 

“But he is not...physically ill.” 

Another pause. “No.” 

“Nor injured. Or...drugged.” 

Damian scowls, trying to figure out how to ask what he wants to ask. 

“I’m afraid there’s little we can do at the moment but give him time and space, Master Damian.” 

“Damian.” 

“Hm?” 

“I’m _fine_ okay? I’m trying to sleep.” 

“You are not fine and you are not trying to sleep.” 

A sigh. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But I will be fine. So can you just stop?” 

“Tt.” 

Damian retracts his face from the crack in the door and continues on to his own room. 

When he passes Drake’s room on his way to the stairs, watercolor pad in hand, the door is closed. 

Damian is headed to his bedroom, arms full of arts supplies, when he hears an odd sound. 

It’s coming from Drake’s room. 

He comes from a family of detectives. _Of course_ he presses his ear to the door. 

It sounds like...gasping. 

Very...wet gasping. 

Oh. 

_Shit_. 

_That does it._

Damian considers his phone. 

Drake would not appreciate him making this call. 

Drake says he is fine. 

Drake is definitely not fine. 

Pennyworth believes they should leave him be. 

Tim’s reactions to Damian’s presence seem to support the theory. 

And yet. 

Damian clenches his jaw, and taps the screen. 

_Brrriingg_ _. Brring._

_“Hiya, Dames, ‘sup?”_

“Grayson,” Damian says primly. “I am in need of your assistance.” 

Damian opens the door before Grayson can put his key in the lock. 

“Drake is upstairs,” he says. 

Richard blinks, studies him, nods. Offers a small smile and ruffles Damian’s hair as he walks in. “Thanks for calling me, Dames.” 

“Tt.” 

Damian hears voices through the door every time he tip-toes past. 

It’s only when all is quiet that he risks cracking the door. 

Richard is lying on the bed and turns his head to look at Damian. Timothy, leaning against him, doesn’t move. His eyes are closed. Seems he’s finally _actually_ gone to sleep. 

Looks like Richard has things handled. 

Before Richard can move, Damian gives him a curt nod and slips out. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...my apologies to Tim Drake.  
> ...yeah I'll post the cacti one later too.


End file.
